'
'What became of the weapon?'
'That is just the point on which I wish to satisfy myself. Excuse me
for a moment.'
Mr. Sherlaw Kombs drew down the window on the right hand side, and
examined the top of the casing minutely with a magnifying glass.
Presently he heaved a sigh of relief, and drew up the sash.
'Just as I expected,' he remarked, speaking more to himself than to
me. 'There is a slight dent on the top of the window-frame. It is of
such a nature as to be made only by the trigger of a pistol falling
from the nerveless hand of a suicide. He intended to throw the weapon
far out of the window, but had not the strength. It might have fallen
into the carriage. As a matter of fact, it bounced away from the line
and lies among the grass about ten feet six inches from the outside
rail. The only question that now remains is where the deed was
committed, and the exact present position of the pistol reckoned in
miles from London, but that, fortunately, is too simple to even need
explanation.'
'Great heavens, Sherlaw!' I cried. 'How can you call that simple? It
seems to me impossible to compute.'
We were now flying over Northern London, and the great detective
leaned back with every sign of _ennui_, closing his eyes.
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